Read Online Lancelot by Walker Percy - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Walker Percy
Tags: Fiction
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new beginning must be made. People must begin all over again, as tentatively as strangers meeting on Jefferson Island (didnât you have something like that in mind when you spoke of the âpeculiar possibilitiesâ of Jefferson Island?). I want to go with her, a mute, psychotic, totally ravaged and defiled woman, take her to a little cottage over thereâclose to the river beyond Magazine Streetâa little Negro shotgun cottage, and there take care of her. We could speak simply. âAre you hungry?â âAre you cold?â Perhaps we could take a walk on the levee. In the new world it will be possible to enjoy simple things once again.
But first I must communicate with her, I realize that. Have you tried talking with her? She wonât talk? Sheâs turned her face to the wall and thatâs that.
A new life. I began a new life over a year ago when I walked out of that dark parlor after leaving the supper table. Or rather walked into that dark parlor. Now I believe there will be a third new life, just as there are three worlds, the old dead past world, the hopeless screwed-up now world, and the unknown world of the future.
So anyhow I began my new life then when I stepped out of my life routine worn bare and deep as a cowpath across a meadow, climbed out of my rut, stopped listening to the news and Mary Tyler Moore. And strangely, stopped drinking and smoking. The second I left my old lifeâs cowpath, I discovered I didnât need a drink. It became possible to stand still in the dark under the oaks, hands at my sides, and watch and wait.
I forgot to tell you another thing that happened in the parlor, a small but perhaps significant thing. As I stepped into the parlor with its smell of lemon wax and damp horsehair, I stopped and shut my eyes a moment to get used to the darkness. Then as I crossed the room to the sliding doors, something moved in the corner of my eye. It was a man at the far end of the room. He was watching me. He did not look familiar. There was something wary and poised about the way he stood, shoulders angled, knees slightly bent as if he were prepared for anything. He was mostly silhouette but white on black like a reversed negative. His arms were long, one hanging lower and lemur-like from dropped shoulder. His head was cocked, turned enough so I could see the curve at the back. There was a sense about him of a vulnerability guarded against, an overcome gawkiness, a conquered frailty. Seeing such a man one thought first: Big-headed smart-boy type; then thought again: But heâs big too. If he hadnât developed his body, worked out, heâd have a frail neck, two tendons, and a hollow between, balancing that big head. He looked like a long-distance runner who has conquered polio. He looked like a smart sissy rich boy who has devoted his life to getting over it.
Then I realized it was myself reflected in the dim pier mirror.
When I returned to the pigeonnier cold sober, I took a good look at myself in the mirror, something I hadnât done for a long time. It was as if I had been avoiding my own eye for the past few years.
Looking at oneself in a mirror is a self-canceling phenomenon. Eyes looking into eyes make a hole which spreads out and renders one invisible. I had seen more of myself in that single glimpse of a ghostly image in the pier mirror, not knowing it was I.
What did I see? It is hard to say, but it appeared to be a man gone to seed. Do you remember the picture of Lancelot disgraced, discovered in adultery with the queen, banished, living in the woods, stretched out on a rock, chin cupped in both hands, bloodshot eyes staring straight ahead, yellow hair growing down over his brows? But itâs a bad comparison. My bloodshot eyes were staring too but it was not so much the case of my screwing the queen as the queen getting screwed by somebody else.
I moved closer. The cheek showed the razor track of the morningâs shave; above it, the
But first I must communicate with her, I realize that. Have you tried talking with her? She wonât talk? Sheâs turned her face to the wall and thatâs that.
A new life. I began a new life over a year ago when I walked out of that dark parlor after leaving the supper table. Or rather walked into that dark parlor. Now I believe there will be a third new life, just as there are three worlds, the old dead past world, the hopeless screwed-up now world, and the unknown world of the future.
So anyhow I began my new life then when I stepped out of my life routine worn bare and deep as a cowpath across a meadow, climbed out of my rut, stopped listening to the news and Mary Tyler Moore. And strangely, stopped drinking and smoking. The second I left my old lifeâs cowpath, I discovered I didnât need a drink. It became possible to stand still in the dark under the oaks, hands at my sides, and watch and wait.
I forgot to tell you another thing that happened in the parlor, a small but perhaps significant thing. As I stepped into the parlor with its smell of lemon wax and damp horsehair, I stopped and shut my eyes a moment to get used to the darkness. Then as I crossed the room to the sliding doors, something moved in the corner of my eye. It was a man at the far end of the room. He was watching me. He did not look familiar. There was something wary and poised about the way he stood, shoulders angled, knees slightly bent as if he were prepared for anything. He was mostly silhouette but white on black like a reversed negative. His arms were long, one hanging lower and lemur-like from dropped shoulder. His head was cocked, turned enough so I could see the curve at the back. There was a sense about him of a vulnerability guarded against, an overcome gawkiness, a conquered frailty. Seeing such a man one thought first: Big-headed smart-boy type; then thought again: But heâs big too. If he hadnât developed his body, worked out, heâd have a frail neck, two tendons, and a hollow between, balancing that big head. He looked like a long-distance runner who has conquered polio. He looked like a smart sissy rich boy who has devoted his life to getting over it.
Then I realized it was myself reflected in the dim pier mirror.
When I returned to the pigeonnier cold sober, I took a good look at myself in the mirror, something I hadnât done for a long time. It was as if I had been avoiding my own eye for the past few years.
Looking at oneself in a mirror is a self-canceling phenomenon. Eyes looking into eyes make a hole which spreads out and renders one invisible. I had seen more of myself in that single glimpse of a ghostly image in the pier mirror, not knowing it was I.
What did I see? It is hard to say, but it appeared to be a man gone to seed. Do you remember the picture of Lancelot disgraced, discovered in adultery with the queen, banished, living in the woods, stretched out on a rock, chin cupped in both hands, bloodshot eyes staring straight ahead, yellow hair growing down over his brows? But itâs a bad comparison. My bloodshot eyes were staring too but it was not so much the case of my screwing the queen as the queen getting screwed by somebody else.
I moved closer. The cheek showed the razor track of the morningâs shave; above it, the
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